Alles Nur Geklaut
by TheFantabulousPandemonium
Summary: He is grasping at the last grains of sand trickling through his fingers. Or it is some sadistic play, he muses, of a broken puppet on a frayed, lonely string. That thought brings a soundless chuckle and a bitter quirk of lips he can't yet call a smile. Post-WWI Austria character study in the form of Allies/Austria. Not finished.
1. Carrion

He is grasping at the last grains of sand trickling through his fingers.

Or it is some sadistic play, he muses, of a broken puppet on a frayed, lonely string. That thought brings a soundless chuckle and a bitter quirk of lips he can't yet call a smile. His empire was nothing but a play, a machination set to an invisible melody that deserted him halfway through. It burns a hole twice the size of Vienna in his heart.

His mansion, once grand and beautifully kept, is deserted, fallen into disrepair during the War. It is the first time in years he is here.

Hungary has left, and he does not blame her. Without the empire, they are nothing more than acquaintances. Strangers in close proximity, even. His hands collect dust when he runs them along the banisters. Most of the furniture is gone and the silver is scattered uselessly. His steps echo on the worn carpet of the stairs. He is walking so fast, they sound like gunshots.

His thoughts turn to the Archduke. Had it been really necessary? He curses himself. Stupid. Stupid and arrogant and selfish. How many years have even gone by? He had lost count. Stupid. He pauses at the top step.

He should not feel so bitter. It is war, after all, and there will always be winners and losers. He just happened to lose this time. Bitterness is bad sportsmanship; he is a noble, not a drunk lost in his own tankard.

A sharp sigh forces him to continue. If only Prussia could see him now, the vulture. Not that he ever intended to let him. His own quiet laugh startles him and he almost forgets. Thinking about that heathen at a time like this? The idea is indeed humorous, but Prussia is familiar. He could predict his actions with a fair amount of accuracy. He knows which buttons to press and when to put him out on his rump, where to jab just right to hurt his pride and play his anger and fear.

The door to the conservatory is broken, one hinge hanging lamely against the wood. It is nothing compared to the destruction inside. The windows are shattered, glass peppering the floor, and his bench is nearly ripped in two. Centuries of compositions are all over the room in various states. In the middle of the chaos, leaning casually against his broken piano, sits someone he never wished to see enter the war in the first place.

"You certainly took your time."

None of them should have gotten involved. It was between him and Serbia, not them. He ignores him, worrying more about his music. The piano will take a long time to repair. His knees nearly give out when he bends to collect the crumpled sheets.

"They're calling you a warmonger."

He snorts, allowing his fragile composure to flake away and fixing the intruder with a cold smile.

"Rather hypocritical of them."

They shrug, sending back the same corpse-cold stare. "Aren't we all, nowadays?"

"Some more so than others."

He turns back to the music. They are playing a dangerous game; one wrong move and he is done. There is a small rest in talk and he can feel their eyes on him.

"Germany's taking the blame for your little play, you know. Such a shame."

He grits his teeth and keeps his back turned. His legs soon fail him, however, and he collapses onto the floor. Another rest while he struggles to sit up. Then, a rapid staccato of heavy steps grows louder and he is yanked to the other's height.

"You should listen to me when I'm talking, Austria."

The pain almost blinds him and he struggles to breathe against the grip at his collar. In that moment, he could not hate them more. The intruder is calm and, somehow, he works up enough audacity to pierce him with an icy glare and spit in his face.

He smashes painfully against the far wall, crumpling into a loose ball. This is nothing, he tells himself through the pounding in his skull, there has been worse. A hand slams into his head, fisting a chunk of hair and pulling up.

"Do you know how damned lucky you are?"

Another hand grabs his collar again, hauling him toward what was left of his bench. They swing him onto it and against the piano with a clattering of keys, as if he is a rag doll. He laments his metaphor coming back too soon.

"Do you even realise how close you were to dissolution?"

He had not been allowed to attend the conference and they both know it. But, dissolution? He closes his eyes in half-defeat. A sharp tug at his hair stops that.

"Are you listening, Austria?"

Their tone is quiet and condescending. They trace their thumb over his cheek, leaning in to rest their foreheads together. His vision is blurry, but he does not need to see the smirk to know it is there.

"You're dangerous, you know. Power-hungry. Selfish. Unstable. Helpless, perhaps."

They lean back chuckling, observing him. He hates it. Hates every word the intruder spits at him. Hates himself.

"Someone will be here to watch you. After all, we don't want to start another war now, do we?"

They take their leave carelessly, and he can hear their boots until they are out the front door. He hates himself for being so helpless. He hates England. But, most of all, he hates the fact that in some twisted, sickening way he is right.

He spends the night in the conservatory.


	2. The Fear of Cloudy Skies

In the morning, he can barely stand even though the bruises have already healed. It takes hours to make his way to the kitchen. The bread is mouldy and the milk is spoilt. He is not hungry, anyway.

There is a small amount of coffee grounds left in the cabinets and he spends far too long trying to remember how to make it without a tin and an open fire. He checks another cabinet for a cup. The porcelain is in good condition under the years of dust and cobwebs. The tap coughs when he turns it on, running murky brown for nearly a minute.

The front door slams open and he spills his drink onto his hands and the table. It does not burn, since it was not very warm to begin with. All the rags have been eaten by moths. He sighs and forces himself to stand.

"So this is where you're hiding."

The loud voice from behind startles him and he barely fights the urge to duck under the table. He calms his shaking hands before turning to the intruder. They are not European; the features are different and he already knows everyone in Europe. He says nothing while they stumble over their words.

"You, uh, do speak English, right?"

He almost says no. Almost turns back to his coffee. Almost.

"I do."

Now he turns to his drink, collecting the empty cup and bringing it to the sink. They follow him rather aimlessly, craning their neck to inspect his kitchen.

"You live here?"

The look of disgust is visible out the corner of his eye. A small flame of anger and pride flares in his chest. He dries the cup on his uniform and sets it on the counter before answering.

"It has been years."

Their mouth forms a small 'o' in understanding. He is not quite sure who they are yet, though his suspicions centre somewhere on North America. His spoon is still laying on the table. He retrieves it without a problem, rinsing that as well before the intruder corners him against the counter.

"Why aren't you doing anything? You've got nothing left, aren't you angry?"

Frustration raises their voice until they are near shouting and he wants nothing more than to cower under something until they leave, but he cannot. Instead he keeps his head up, staring blankly at them until he processes their words. Yes he is angry, how could he not be? He lost the war he started, thanks to the whole of alliances who should of kept their noses out of his business, and he is not even the one getting punished. Serbia is nothing to them, and he suspects he is the same. Loathing bubbles into his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and making him hate the person in front of him.

"You know nothing of war."

His voice is icy. The answer is simple now - the United States of America. How could he have missed it? Of course, he has never met the country face to face before until now and finds his former respect draining. They are still too young to be involved and would have done better to stay on the other side of the Atlantic. He watches their face run through an assortment of expressions with faint amusement. Anger is the last emotion.

"I was born in war."

Their hands are wrapped tightly around his wrists and he cannot feel his fingers. The counter digs into his back and his legs shake but America presses closer until their noses are nearly touching. They are wrong, however. It is one thing to be born into war, as many of the European countries are, and another entirely to gain independence through it. They are of the latter. Something in his wrist snaps and he crumples into the other in pain, a half-scream leaving his mouth without permission.

America panics. Rightly so, he thinks, even as the pain begins to dull.

"Oh gosh, I'm so s- I'll set it, is that okay with you?"

He is sitting with his arm on the table before he can think of an answer. They have an easy time finding his bulky first aid kit, but has no idea what the contents are. He sighs, more to himself than anything, and slides the case across the table with his good hand. It is thankfully his right. The poultice is fairly easy to apply, though the bandages hive him trouble until America catches on. They spew apologies until he can hardly believe they are one of England's former colonies.

They tie the bandages with an exaggerated sigh of relief. He finds himself examining their handiwork. It is sloppy, with too many layers, but snug enough to keep the splint in place. Not bad, really.

"Gee, I'm super sorry. I still have trouble controlling my strength every once in a while, y'know? If there's anything I can do to make it up to you let me know, m'kay?"

He contemplates that while they continue to blather on. America talks about the war, mostly, supplying information he already knew or had guessed at. It is strange to be sitting across from someone who had not existed three centuries ago. When did he hear of them last? He was sure it had been from Prussia's braggings. Something about a general, he remembers.

"Hey, are you even listening?"

He is not, having drifted into his own thoughts a while back. The last thing he remembers hearing is a slur about Germany he cannot fully comprehend. He shakes his head and they sigh into their palm.

"I thought Europeans were supposed to be thoughtful."

His heart burns once again with prideful anger. He does not allow himself to give them a rightful jab in the gut. It would solve many things, including the growing dislike he felt for America, but it would cause more problems than anything and he is not fond of being turned on his stomach. He sniffs haughtily, turning away from them.

"I thought Americans were supposed to be thought_less._"

He sneers his words and they do not catch the thinly veiled complement hiding in the phrase. At once America is over the table at him and he really does hit them. Not in the gut, where it would hurt a lot less, but in the jaw. A sickening crack tells him something broke. He almost fears for his life until the pain spreads into his good hand, he laments to himself! And he was just going to pick up the harp again.

They land on him awkwardly, their face pressed against his collarbone and their thighs just reaching his knees. His skull throbs from where it slammed against the floor and his vision is blurry. America is chattering away again and trying to get up. His legs are numb and he only realises that America is up when his world spins and the table shrinks to it's normal size. He falls again when they tug him.

His head cracks against the table on the way down.


End file.
